


Five Minutes

by iloveyoudie



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Denial of Feelings, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, Frottage, M/M, Masturbation, Past Relationship(s), Roughness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 21:01:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3355127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iloveyoudie/pseuds/iloveyoudie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-What Pride Had Wrought/Temple of Mythal.</p><p>Samson is being weaned off of red lyrium, an unexpected and unknown territory.<br/>Set very soon after his judgement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Minutes

Cullen heard the muttering as soon as he entered the cell block. Then the frantic pacing footsteps across the dirt and stone.

Samson was going through withdrawal, pacing and talking to himself and possibly hallucinating. It was all they could do to let it run it’s course, the red lyrium slowly being cut out and the blue substituted in. They couldn’t be mixed and were carefully dosed but Samson wasn’t a cooperative participant and after bloodying 3 different guards noses, it became necessary for Cullen to administer it himself.

Seeing Samson only reinforced that his decision to quit lyrium was the right one. The other man’s descent was difficult to watch. Run it’s course they say, but he wonders how long it will take and if the red would ever _truly_ release it’s hold.

Behind the bars he sees Samson pacing, three leggy strides from wall to wall, a generous cell for a prisoner of war. The gaunt man is pale, clammy and circles ring his eyes. With the red fading he looks less manic, less crazed, but more sorry. He’s a sad excuse for what he once was, in gleaming armor in Kirkwall with a purpose and a title.

“They don’t understand...” he mutters in ragged whispers, unaware of the Commander observing. It’s unclear what he differentiates as real and often makes no sense. “Comes in the dark.. picks you open.. goes inside.. mmnn..” His spindly hands drive with agitation into his hair, gripping as his shoulders start to shake with fevered shivers.

“Samson.” Cullen puffs up and rattles the cell door. It’s satisfying after what the other man did to see him locked up for his crimes, but the reality of this was almost too difficult.

 _Another trial by the Maker. A test of his fortitude and faith._ “Samson. It’s time for your lyrium.”

The muttering stopped and the other man’s eyes locked on him, they were suddenly frighteningly sharp. “Cullen..” it was almost lucid, a lazy affected drawl, but it didn’t hold long before madness crept in. His face stretching and reddening his lips pulling back as his volume rose, “Little lion.. golden boy.. so FUCKING GOOD-”

“SAMSON.”

Like a shot he was silent, his eyes wide and body trembling like an admonished toddler. Now, he only looked sad and wasted. Samson wavered on his feet before dropping to his knees and Cullen finally opened the door and stepped inside.

He sat on the solitary bench, not attempting to raise the other from the dirt and straw. Instead he set down the box in his hands, opened it, and began to prepare Samson’s doses.

The prisoner watched now, addiction pulling his eyes to the box. Like a dog begging for scraps he slid across the floor inch by inch until he was at Cullen’s feet and pressed against his knees and shins.

“Are you with me now?” Cullen hated being this close to him. Whatever small friendship he’d had was not with this _thing_ , this mad needy creature wearing Samson’s skin, and even in the moments of lucidity all Samson could do was mock him and curse his name. But sober insults and venomous barbs he hoped were a sign of recovery. Unfortunately Samson was never himself when the box came out. He was always a shaking, grabbing wraith of a thing.

“You know the routine.” Cullen couldn’t afford to be soft with him so he used a commanding tone. He wouldn’t slip into familiarity. Not with this _thing._ “Red first.”

“Red first.” Samson hissed through discolored teeth, chest now leaning eagerly against Cullen’s leg. The Commander could feel the other’s racing heart rattle against his ribcage, his body a thinning shell while the withdrawal stole his appetite.

 _Red first._ Dagna had said. _It’s what his body is craving so we sate it. We have to ween him off slowly but if he goes cold turkey he could die. The easiest way is just giving him the raw crystals. It’s what he’s used to and the familiarity should help,_ she’d looked sheepish, _I think._

Cullen felt cold clench his stomach as he pulled out the red lyrium in his gloved hand. He could feel the sickening pull from it and as much as he wanted to recoil he was required instead to hand it over. He steeled himself for the inevitable reaction.

Samson’s face lit up, his hands lifting and shaking and twitching with need. He still pressed against Cullen’s leg and shook. “Cullen..” It was a drawling demand, tone bordering on nasty. But his hands were too shaky, his fingers too weak, and the Commander couldn’t hand it over because Samson was unable to hold it.

The ex-red templar trembled more, leaning and pressing against Cullen’s shins. He shakily grabbed the man’s knee for support and felt him freeze and tense. Samson pliantly opened his mouth.

Cullen stared, waves of disgust churning together with pity as the once proud man wantonly parted his lips like one of the Blooming Rose’s best. He couldn’t help a sympathetic sigh, “ _Maker_ , what have you done to yourself…”

He placed the crimson lyrium carefully between Samson’s lips just as the prisoner snapped his mouth over it, engulfing both the dose and Cullen’s leather clad fingers with his wet mouth. His eyes fluttered shut with a groan as his lips and tongue greedily swirled and suckled on the fingers for every last bit of dust.

Cullen snatched his hand free, trailing a string of saliva from the others lips that he swiped away. His stomach twisted sharply in revulsion. Samson settled his cheek against the front of the knee as he indulged. The Commander had learned quickly that it wasn’t worth it to fight him after the red was given. The red didn’t soothe, it raged. It burned and called and claimed. It grew and hardened and made men into monsters.

He could feel Samson’s mouth sucking and grinding and crushing the crystals, his jaw crunching audibly against the fabric of Cullen's pants. Samson's clammy skin began to warm. The trembling stopped, a prelude to what the Commander knew what was coming.

“That’s all?” The red templar growled with a passing wave of clarity and lifted his red rimmed eyes to Cullen’s face. “What are you doing to me?”

The blue would help. The blue would cool and temper him. But not yet.

 _You need to wait five whole minutes. It **can** be longer but no less than that. The red has to fully absorb before we can treat his physical response._ Dagna had been very specific.

“Cullen…” He’d been staring at the groveling man with a dead gaze, his thoughts elsewhere until Samson’s hand on his knee snapped him back to reality. _Five minutes._ “Cullen where’s the rest?”

“Samson, you’ll do with that. You know the arrangement.”

“I never pegged you for torture.” He was eerily like himself on the red, even if it was the weasling, scrabbling addicted version of self. “Never thought you had the balls.” Samson rose with an aggressive sneer and pushed himself up against Cullen’s leg to grab his own crotch with his free hand and growl.

Cullen’s eyes looked anywhere but there.

“You’re keeping it all for yourself, aren’t you. Your inquisitor thinks you are the strong, dedicated, stalwart warrior but I bet you sneak it at night.. just a taste..” Samson's nasal tone drawled through the words and dragged them together. His body pressed further against Cullen’s leg, trembling bones under paper skin.

“You like how it burns? Creeping and crawling…” Samson’s fingers were kneading over the front of own trousers, his shoulders rolling as the red spread across his skin and sunk into his muscles and sent his blood boiling. Sometimes it made him rage, scream and punch things… sometimes it ended in fisticuffs. Other times he got like _this_.

Cullen tried to stare at the wall or the ceiling. The first time this happened he'd tried to leave. 

_It was only five minutes._

The red templar had risen on his knees slightly, one hand still like a vice on one of Cullen’s knees and the other now gripping the obvious hardness through his linen pants. The Commander could feel it against his leg as Samson shifted. He could feel the steely hand kneading and rubbing, the throbbing erection growing by the second as the red templar worked himself.

“Samson..” He growled a warning but was ignored.

“I know you have more.. you could take it _with_ me.” He near straddled Cullen’s angled shin now, still on his knees in the dirt. Samson’s hips rolled and he sighed, rocking his balls against the other man’s leg, the straps and buckles offering him rough contrast and making him grunt. Any way you looked at it, Cullen was a means to an end.

“We could take this place apart. Brick by brick.” Cullen was silent and frozen, eyes wide and unreadable. His gut wrenched as Samson’s hands stopped working through the fabric and he instead pulled himself out. His cock was rigid, glistening and red. _“Together.”_

Samson stopped talking now, palming himself slowly and rubbing against Cullen’s high leather boots. He stared at the Commander’s face as he panted, his thin hand like a vice around his angry swollen length.

If only he’d look away. If Cullen didn’t have to feel his eyes on him... feel like he needed to be some sort of audience.

_Just five minutes. Maker take me._

Samson’s grip was tight and rough, his thin hips getting more insistent as he rubbed himself on the leather between his legs. The claws of his fingers pumped and swiped over his cock head making him shiver. His eyes fluttered before and he worked faster. Each wrenching thrust into his hand rubbed the length on Cullen’s leg, the leather slick with his own moisture. The friction led Samson to rut rougher by the second. His breath issuing in ragged hisses and gasps, his chapped bottom lip pulled between his teeth and bitten until it bled. The red templar’s free hand could only grip and brace himself, rubbing and grasping and squeezing where it clamped on Cullen’s knee for stability. Each wave of pleasure, each jolt of pain, each rough rub of leather against his body made Samson more insistent until his hisses had become growls and his red rimmed eyes became heavy lidded and wanton.

“Look at me Cullen.” Samson moaned.

_Was the five minutes up?_

“Look at me as I fuck myself against your leg.” He demanded.

Heat bloomed in the Commander’s gut and he despised himself for complying.

“I’m gonna come on your pretty.. ahh..” he shuddered, “your fucking supple.. unngh.. fancy..  boots.“ His hips rocked, and Cullen could see the length pinned there clutched in Samson’s claw. Thick and red and glistening.

Samson’s thin shoulders curled in a steely hunch as he neared climax. Cullen swallowed dryly and tried to pray but even as his eyes rose to the damp ceiling of the cell  and closed, all he could see behind his lids was Samson’s hand tugging himself, hear Samson’s ragged growling, and feel the man’s desperate rutting and rough wet slaps against the leather.

“I think of you..” Samson’s lips twisted into a smirk. “Think of you from Kirkwall.. Meredith’s special boy. On his belly, rubbing against his pillow, thinking I didn’t hear.” His hisses were whispers now as his breathing got erratic. “I watched you… shit, Cullen you were a little slut for it… the noises you made..”

The Commander didn’t know if the five minutes were up yet. He prayed and ignored his own stiffening. He tried to think of anything except Samson’s words to no avail.

“Fuck..” Samson’s eyes now squeezed and he stopped his humping. His body held tight and arched over Cullen’s sullied boot as his hand movement sped to a crescendo. Pearly strings of come erupted all over his hand and the leg under him. He trembled and gasped, growled as his wiry body stretched tense like a bow string on the verge of snapping.

The name on his lips, “Cullen..”

Samson sagged then, body collapsing against the leg beneath him and not caring that he was laying in his own mess. The rush of his orgasm thoroughly burning through the initial altering effects of the red lyrium. He was boneless and pliable and Cullen finally shifted and moved for the box.

The blue was prepared in silence, cut with herbs to encourage sleep, and the prisoner eventually lifted himself in silence and tucked back into his pants. He made no effort to deal with Cullen’s boot but he was, with a small blessing, silent. He watched the blue like a child being presented with their least favorite vegetable. He would take it only because he had to.

“Here.” The lyrium was offered in a cup, sipped and it soothed all the way down. It cooled the burn and eased the nerve sparking restlessness. It was tame. It was acceptable.

_Samson hated it._

But he sat and let it work through him, felt his mind calm and his rage slip away. He leaned against Cullen’s leg again, this time because he had a sudden need for company. The lyrium played his moods against one another with erratic efficiency and he very suddenly didn’t want to be alone.

Samson sipped his blue and closed his eyes and he was in Kirkwall again. There was a cold spell and blankets were sparse. He was skinny, used to warmer nights, and he shivered and chattered and did his best to sleep. And then there was warm and skin and a body at his back. His instinct was to writhe away but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

_‘Your teeth chattering kept me awake, Sam.’ Words, affectionate, whispered in his ear._

_And then soothing touches and petting and warmth._

On the floor of the cell Samson dozed and dreamed. Blue stained his lips, wiped gently clean while he was prone and unaware. His dreams jumped and glided through both real and manufactured memories, but laying there on the cold stone floor only one thing seemed to sink through the visions and ground him. _A warmth at his back. A safeness. A body. And then gloved hands, gentle and soothing, smoothing over his hair._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I usually not one for the addiction-sexualization but I wanted something fast and dirty and Samson/Cullen filled that void.


End file.
